The Girl With 39 Graves

by Michael Beres

  “I see you in his face, the twinkle in his eyes.”

  “You obviously want me to blush.”

  They stared at one another a moment before Niki stood from the table and went to the window. “I need to go to the place my father served, especially after speaking with other survivors. There are things I haven’t told you.”

  After waiting a moment, Lazlo asked, “What things?”

  “The research,” said Niki. “Others related to Manila CCC men saved strands of hair. The hair obviously came from their time together at camp.”

  Niki returned to the table, reached into a side pocket, and pulled out a Ziploc bag. Strands of red hair held together by yellowed tape. Lazlo recalled the redhead in the Hopper painting Nighthawks and the violinist with red hair he’d killed near the Hungarian and Romanian borders. They were silent a moment, each trying to make connections to the past. Telepátia or déjà vu?

  They went over what they knew, focusing on George Minkus, who died under the bus on North Avenue; his son Buddy, who died in a motorcycle accident; Paul Fontaine, who killed his wife and hung himself in Sun City, Arizona; Bela Voronko and his son, who both died in single vehicle accidents in Ukraine; Doctor Marta Voronko, recently murdered on an Odessa beach; Sonia Nagy, recently murdered in Kiev; and of course Nick Gianakos, who fell from the roof of his Greektown building.

  Eventually they agreed Lazlo should phone George Minkus Junior to see if he knew of his nephew Cory’s motorcycle trip, and Niki should phone Jacobson and find out if he has further information.

  Lazlo reminded Minkus his brother Buddy died in a motorcycle accident and his nephew was on a similar trip. The phone went dead. When he called back, Minkus said, “Yeah, I hung up. You’re a persistent bastard.” Minkus gave Lazlo his nephew’s cell phone number. “Someone should be able to get hold of him. I don’t know why. He’s a loner like his old man.”

  When Niki called Jacobson, he said he was still in Chicago and would meet with them the next afternoon. They sat thinking in silence for a time before Lazlo went to the refrigerator and suggested he make sandwiches for lunch.

  “Were you ever married, Lazlo?”

  “I had a companion. She became ill. What about you?”

  “My husband and I married young. I managed my father’s restaurant while my husband worked for Ford. We waited to have children because of strikes. When we tried, we discovered he had prostate cancer. So began years of different therapies. Rather than taking him quickly, cancer made its slow journey to lymph nodes, bones, blood, brain. He was gone mentally before it took him physically.”

  Niki encouraged Lazlo to speak more of his past. Eventually the story of the violin-playing deserter in the Hungarian-speaking village came out. The redheaded boy pulling a pistol from the violin case and shooting his partner Viktor. Then the rifle, as if on its own, raises and shoots into the boy’s head. The wailing women, the father wanting the violin buried with the boy, finding out the grandfather who escaped to America in the early 1900s had red hair, Lazlo being willed the name Gypsy, and finally the phrase, “Boys killing boys.”

  Lazlo and Niki sat on the sofa. Slowly they both reached out and held hands.

  In Rock Springs, Wyoming, off Route 30, a man sat at the wheel of a black SUV outside a truck service shop gate. He was big, wearing a blue windbreaker and Chicago Cubs baseball cap. After a while his partner, wearing a red windbreaker, got into the passenger seat.

  “What’s up?” asked the driver.

  “GPS didn’t lie. His Camry’s in back.”

  “You find out where he is?”

  “I got a mechanic off to the side. Says our mark’s driving a big tow rig down to Vernal, Utah. Something about a cold snap and maybe snow in the mountains overnight.”

  “Why a tow truck?”

  “I can only dance around so much.”

  “Nothing about Cavallo, Polenkaya, Zolotarev, or Weizman.”

  “I gave each name a mention. Nothing.”

  “Guess we drive to Vernal.” The driver grimaced as he put the SUV in gear. “Piece of shit Chevy Suburban, 5.3 liter V-8, not enough torque for its weight.”

  Motoring into Utah from Colorado on US 40 south of Dinosaur National Monument. Elevation 6000 feet, landscape studded with buttes, ridges, and the deep Green River Canyon downriver from the Flaming Gorge Dam.

  During the trip on his Harley Davidson Road Glide, Cory Minkus developed a penchant for valleys, mountains, plateaus, and canyons. The ride took him into the setting sun and Vernal, Utah. He filled his tank, bought a sub sandwich and a six-pack of bottles, and pulled into the Best Western Dinosaur Inn. After a hot shower he had a couple beers and his sandwich, then went outside with two more beers to smoke a cigar. Too early in the season for the outdoor pool, so he pulled up a chair at one of the tables, his leather jacket on to ward off the evening chill.

  His Road Glide was visible through the fence surrounding the pool, its fenders and tank reflecting pink sky. Halfway through the cigar a tall muscular man in black cargo pants and hooded sweatshirt began eyeballing Cory’s bike. His cell phone played “Born to be Wild,” the display showing an unfamiliar number. He canceled it, put the phone on the table and took a couple puffs on his cigar. The guy in black still eyeballing his bike. “Born to be Wild” played again and he answered.

  “Yeah.”

  “Cory Minkus? My name is Lazlo Horvath.”

  “I don’t know you.”

  “I’m an investigator in Chicago looking into the deaths of your grandfather and father. Your uncle gave me your number. I’ve spoken to men at the Bent Spoke bar and relatives of men originally in the CCC in Manila, Utah. People whose relatives have met with so-called accidents. I hope I’m not being too blunt.”

  “Uh…yeah…this is quite a coincidence. Manila is up the road. I’ll be there tomorrow after I visit a guy in a nursing home.”

  “A nursing home?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “Can we discuss it?”

  Cory stood because the man in black was checking his Road Glide too closely.

  “I’ve been on the road, had a couple beers, and I’m tired. How about tomorrow?”

  “I understand. I’ll call you tomorrow, say around noon?”

  “It’s hard answering while I’m riding. I’ll call you.”

  “Around noon?”

  “Yeah, noon here is one your time.”

  “Good. I’ll be waiting.”

  When the man in black straddled Cory’s Road Glide, he pocketed his phone and took an empty beer bottle with him.

  “Hey!”

  The man held his hands palms up like he meant no harm, putting on a broad smile within the sweatshirt hood. “Hey, man. No worries, man.”

  With his hands held up his sweatshirt sleeves slid down. On his right wrist was a tattoo with the single word, STORM.

  Cory woke early. He had a headache from last evening’s five beers—one long neck going to the smiling guy in black who’d admired his Road Glide—but headache or no, once on the road with the wind in his face, he knew he’d be fine.

  He anticipated this morning’s ride, not only because he’d end up where his grandfather served in the CCCs, but also because of the scenic loop recommended by the guy in black with the STORM tattoo. The guy said he’d been on the Red Cloud Loop hundreds of times, towing cars that went off in hairpins. The guy pointed out his rig across the parking lot, said he was from Wyoming, the last tow leaving him in Vernal where he often stayed over.

  “Your tow outfit pays for your room?”

  “Hell yes. Better than driving back through the High Uintas Range at night. There’s a car off the road on the loop at about 9000 feet I’ve got to hitch up and take back to Green River. Can’t do that at night.”

  “I was going to take 191 north. Hotel manager says there might be snow a
t high elevations.”

  “She doesn’t know shit. 191’s okay for motor homes. On a bike, I’d take the Red Cloud Loop. West of town you turn north at Dry Fork Canyon. There are signs. I’ve got a bike myself and the Loop is the way to go, even this time of year.”

  “What’s your bike?”

  “An older Sportster 1200.”

  “Is Red Cloud Loop paved?”

  “Mostly, a few gravel sections, but this time of year there’s some gravel on 191.”

  “Okay, guess I’ll take the loop.”

  “You won’t be sorry. Maybe we’ll run into one another since I’m going that way for my hitch up.”

  When Cory left the Best Western he saw the tow truck was gone. He rode into downtown Vernal to visit the nursing home where there was supposed to be an old guy who once worked at the Manila CCC camp. He found Decken MaCade by way of phone calls to a local historical society. An old woman gave him the name, said he was at a place called the Mountain View Care Center, but not much else.

  The smell was a mix of coffee, baking meatloaf, cleaning fluids, and urine. Mountain View Care Center buzzing with activity. Breakfast was over, lunch, the main meal, already cooking. In an activity room a group of old women and two men seated in a circle of chairs were alternately being tossed a beach ball and returning the toss to a young woman who kept up a constant chatter. In the hall aides took residents for walks, most using walkers, some being held up by an aide on either side, safety belts secured around skinny and plump waists. Most aides were female. They wore light blue slacks and flowery tops. Two male aides wore blues top and bottom. Cory left his helmet on the Road Glide, but noticed residents and aides eyeing his leathers. Should have known nursing homes were hotter than hell. He unzipped all the zippers as he walked down the hall.

  Decken MaCade shared a room with another man who was asleep. MaCade had the window bed. The room-dividing curtain was pulled out to give the sleeping guy some privacy. MaCade sat in a wheelchair between the bed and curtain. A label below the armrest of the wheelchair had a printed label with MaCade’s name. Hand-lettered below were the words, “damn chair.” MaCade faced the window, the windowsill lined with fist-sized rocks of varying colors and shapes. Beyond the rocks, through dingy glass, mountains topped the haze above the trees and buildings of Vernal.

  MaCade was skinny and wore bib overalls over a flannel shirt. His ears, both with hearing aides, stuck out a mile. His face was sun-scared. Tubes in his nose led to a green oxygen bottle mounted to the back of the wheelchair.

  “Mr. MaCade?”

  The weathered face turned toward Cory. “What?”

  Cory held out his hand. “I’m Cory Minkus.”

  “Decken MaCade,” said the old man. “Everyone calls me Decken. Sit on my bed. I didn’t piss in it. Not lately anyhow.”

  Cory sat on the edge of the bed facing Decken. “I like your rock collection.”

  “They’re from the Uintas Range, millions of years separating them. “I’ve been collecting rock all my life. I like your outfit. Leathers?”

  “Yes, leathers.”

  Decken stared at Cory a moment, turning his head at various angles as if he could read his mind. “So, you’re visiting. I guess somebody in one of them historical society’s sent you.”

  “Yes, I phoned a woman named Etta Pratt. She works at the Sweetwater County Historical Museum.”

  “She’s a volunteer,” said Decken. “Old like me so all she can do is volunteer until she ends up dead or in this place. I’m surprised they let her on the phone. Last time I saw her she said they told her not to answer calls. Things aren’t the same around the gorge since me and Etta were younger. Used to be more natural. That all changed when they built the dam in the 50s. I forget the exact year. Everything submerged, even roads and a bridge over the river built by CCC boys. I remember how the electric and telephone lines went right down into the water like there might be fish down there with hookups. Crazy, the whole place turned into fishing resorts and those damn jet skis. Ranchers took the buildings apart and used the wood like they owned it. In the 60s a storm washed away all traces of the CCC camp. Only things left from what the boys did are roads, especially the road from Manila to Vernal, and of course the old fire tower. I guess that’s what happens to everything and everyone, including old coots living here. We get washed away.”

  “Can I ask you about my grandfather who was at the Manila CCC camp?”

  “What was his name?”

  “George Minkus.”

  Decken looked down to his lap, closed his eyes. Cory thought he’d dozed off, but he looked up suddenly. “Give me some other names, his buddies when he was at Manila. You should know some of their names if you’ve been searching.”

  “Okay, besides George Minkus, there was Nick Gianakos and Bela Voronko.”

  Decken stared at Cory a while, then said. “Others have come here, you know. They think the 1939 Manila boys from Barracks Three—all of them were in Barracks Three—died in funny ways, and I don’t mean out-loud-laughing funny.”

  “That’s why I’m here. My grandfather supposedly fell under a bus. And my father, Buddy Minkus, went searching for answers and crashed his bike in a way none of his fellow bikers back in Chicago would have figured.”

  Decken started a coughing fit that blew the nose tubes out and had Decken reaching for the call button next to Cory on the bed. Instead of handing the button to Decken, Cory pushed it and stood next to Decken, patting him on the shoulder trying to calm him.

  After visiting Mountain View Care Center, and witnessing Decken MaCade maybe having a stroke, Cory took US 40 west. He’d come back later and see if Decken’s state of mind was different after the stroke, or whatever happened following the coughing fit. Yeah, definitely come back and see Decken again, probably tomorrow after visiting Manila and the woman named Clancy at the Lucerne Valley Marina.

  Cory would return because following the coughing fit, MaCade had been in a panic, saying crazy things like maybe the CCC boys came back from the dead to kill one another, or time-traveled from 1939 and were killing one another. Decken said they were all jealous, something about a girl named Rose and a guy named Sal the Stiletto. He said ghost boys meet up at the fire tower at night and probably have their way with Rose. He mentioned a place called Castle Rock, but said there was another one, another Castle Rock at the fire tower. It seemed half gibberish, half making sense. During the episode, the two male aides he’d seen in the hallway held Decken down, yelling his name and saying they didn’t want him to hurt himself. Decken calmed down after a female nurse came in and gave him a shot.

  Cory had stood back from the action, touching the various rocks lined up on the windowsill. The nurse, surprised to see Cory still standing there, told him he should come back later. Cory had agreed and been on his way out, following the nurse, when Decken reached out, grabbed his arm, and said, in a harsh whisper, “See Clancy at the Lucerne Valley Marina north of Manila. See Clancy. She knows all about it.”

  As Cory rode out of Vernal he could still hear the words, could still smell and feel Decken’s breath on his face. Sour coffee breath blurting out, “See Clancy. She knows all about it,” as the nurse escorted Cory past the dead-to-the-world guy in the next bed.

  Mountain air was good after the visit to Decken MaCade. The slight hangover from last night’s beer blown away. At noon he’d stop to call Lazlo Horvath who phoned last night. Later he’d visit the Lucerne Valley Marina, and tomorrow he’d definitely come back to Vernal.

  Before getting on the Road Glide in the parking lot, he checked out the Flaming Gorge map he picked up at the visitor’s center. The marina and even a fire tower were listed. Also on the map was the Red Cloud Loop recommended by the hooded sweatshirt tow truck driver. Maybe some cobwebs from 1939 were clearing away.

  Cory found the sign for the Red Cloud Loop and turned north. Vernal was busy with tr
affic, but when he made his way through a neighborhood, mountains came up fast. At first there was evidence of strip mining, and a sign telling how phosphates were used for fertilizers to help feed the world. Soon road signs were limited to warnings for tight curves.

  The mountains, a mix of rock and trees, were greener than he expected. As the road climbed, it became all gravel rather than sections of gravel like the guy in the hooded sweatshirt said. Riding the Road Glide was slow going in tight hairpins. At higher elevations, despite the bright sun and temperature in the 50s, there were a couple patches of unplowed mushy snow, making it a slow ride following other tracks that had gone through. A slow ride with no way over to 191 unless he rode all the way back down to Vernal. No way he’d turn around now because he was more than halfway through the loop. The road would probably clear soon, the hooded sweatshirt guy saying there were a few rough spots both ways. One good thing about the cutoff, at least there were no other vehicles…until he came around a really tight hairpin and saw the tow truck parked on the wrong side of the road, facing him.

  After Nurse Ratched injected Decken, the two male aides put him in bed, saying he’d have a nice nap and they’d return at lunchtime. Maybe they turned up his oxygen, he wasn’t sure. He opened his eyes and looked toward the window, wishing the young man was still there instead of nothing but his lineup of rocks and blue sky and the hazy view of Marsh Peak at 12,240 feet on the Sheep Creek Loop some 40 miles to the northwest.

  After being an LEM in the CCCs, he’d gone back to Salt Lake for a while, until he joined the Navy. Eventually he returned to the Uinta Mountains. He settled in Green River, first working for the mines, then the forest service. For a while he worked at a marina up near Green River. He almost married Etta Pratt some years back, but it was too late, all because of his emphysema. Shouldn’t have taken up smoking in the Navy. Doc says good thing he quit when he was younger, otherwise he’d be gone by now. Of course, at 94, it wouldn’t be long.